


Amputechture

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: The Outer Rim [23]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, Injury, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Post-Episode: s02e07 The Believer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: After the raid on the Imperial base, Din Djarin returns for his beskar, wounded from the fight.  Boba Fett provides perspective.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Boba Fett, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Series: The Outer Rim [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055645
Comments: 19
Kudos: 202





	Amputechture

“We’re clear,” crackled Boba Fett’s voice over the comm link. The ship hummed around them, settling into a smooth flight path, the threat of the TIE fighters removed. Din Djarin slumped back into his seat, loosening his flight restraints. 

The adrenaline that had been jangling through him ever since the pirate assault on their transport finally began to leach away, leaving in its wake the sinking knowledge that he’d taken more than one hard hit today; hand to hand combat without his armor, the concussive blast of the thermal detonator throwing him back. _Dank farrik._ He’d be useless to the kid like this.

He unclipped the restraints as Mayfeld, strapped in across from him, gave him a ragged smile. “Looks like we made it, Mando.”

Din let out a noncommittal grunt, wincing at the way his ribs protested straightening up. His left arm pulsed painfully, and a dull ache pounded at the back of his head. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

Mayfeld nodded, lifting up his empty palms. “Hey. I’m just glad we got what we came for. And a little extra.”

“Thank you,” said Din gruffly. He made his way past the other man, scanning the room to see if he could spot where Cara had stashed his armor. It wasn’t there. 

He stopped at the ladder into the cockpit; Fett would know where it was, but the ladder gave him pause. He flexed his left hand into a fist, hissing at the sear of pain that rocketed up and down the arm. That flimsy plasteel armor had shattered at his first attempt at a defensive block. Nothing like the exquisite craftsmanship of beskar.

He took the ladder rungs carefully, teeth clenching with each step. He ascended into the cockpit, breathing faster than he should have been.

“Fett,” he said. “Nice flying back there.” He inhaled, his chest and ribs throbbing. “My armor. Where is it?”

“It’s here,” said Fett, turning back to glance at him. The armor bag was stowed safely beside Fett. Below, Din could see the ship was approaching the rendezvous point. “Were you successful?”

He closed his eyes. _I showed my face --_

Mayfeld, his eyes averted, handing him the helmet without looking at him. _You did what you had to do._

The Armorer’s voice, clear as day, lessons forever written in his mind. _The Creed demands the highest sacrifice to protect a foundling --_

_To protect_ **_him_ ** _\-- to protect_ **_my_ ** _\--_

“Yes,” Din said. “We got the information.”

Fett regarded him coolly, helmet canted slightly to one side. “You’re injured.” 

Din straightened up, ignoring a stab of pain in the ribs, the deep ache at the back of his head. “It’s nothing.” He couldn’t help but bristle at Fett’s observation, irritated that it had been that apparent. 

Fett gestured to the missing pauldron and vambrace on Din’s left arm. “Have you ever trained for battle without your beskar?”

“My training was sufficient,” Din bit out. He stepped forward, kneeling with care to work on undoing the fasteners on the bag of armor that held it in place. He undid the buckles, pulling the bag free from the wall, the weight of it sinking against him.

“It’s like an amputation, isn’t it?” said Fett. He had turned back to watching the sky, hands moving over the controls with practiced ease.

“What?” Din asked, his hands stilling on the surface of the bag. Beskar gleamed through the slight opening he’d made in the bag, close enough to touch.

“To be separated from one’s armor,” said Fett. His voice carried no hint of passion or emotion, but Din felt a sudden fierce ache that had nothing to do with the pain in his body.

“Yes,” he said, so softly he wasn’t sure if Fett had heard him.

“I swore no Creed,” said Fett. “But this --” He tapped a hand against his cuirass. “This is who I am.” He nodded. “I can see it is the same for you.”

“This is the Way,” Din said, but the words felt strange in his mouth, as if he had never said them before. 

“Right,” said Fett. “If that’s what you call it.” He gestured behind him, waving. “Go on. There’s time, and you’ll need it if we run into any surprises.”

“Thank you for keeping it safe,” said Din, swallowing. He rubbed his thumb against the curved surface of his pauldron, tracing the mudhorn’s outline. _A clan of two._

He was in no shape to fight again, not yet, much as it galled him. He hesitated. “Do you -- do you have any bacta? I’ll pay you.”

“I thought it was ‘nothing,’” said Fett wryly. “Wondered when you’d ask. Side compartment in the refresher, above the vac tube. Should be enough for what you need.”

Din straightened up slowly, lifting his armor despite his body’s protests. “I’ll be below.”

* * *

Below took more time than he liked to admit to reach, carrying the heavy beskar down the ladder. Once he reached the small refresher, he locked himself and the armor inside, only then removing the Imperial helmet. 

He checked himself over in the dingy mirror for facial injury, then followed the same process once he had stripped out of the Imperial uniform. He glared at the contusions swelling along the length of his left arm, bit his lip at brushing against ribs he hoped were only bruised, not cracked. He twisted his head to look down at his chest, narrowing his eyes at the purplish bloom of blood beneath the skin, the speckling of abrasions marring the surface. 

_Damn it._ He should have been faster, should have realized from the start the need to compensate for the lack of beskar. Fett’s phrasing echoed uncomfortably. _An amputation._

At least Fett had been as good as his word. Din found bacta patches stacked high in the narrow compartment above the vac, and he fixed them over the worst of the swelling on his left arm, struggling only a little to place them one-handed. He placed another over the sorest point on his ribs, then followed with a little numbspray on his bruised knuckles. It was good enough to fight another day. Good enough to do what needed to be done.

Din turned on the water in the rusty sink. Its cool trickle slid over his hands as he splashed some onto his face, scrubbing off dried sweat, the stink of the Imperial helmet, the memory of eyes upon him.

He dropped his hands, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles whitened beneath the bruises. “For the kid,” he whispered. _Big eyes gazing up at him, little hands reaching out, his weight so real and solid in Din’s arms --_

He was silent a moment, his eyes burning. “For the kid.”

He dried his face with the trooper’s cloth undershirt, then balled it up and tossed it into the corner, turning to his beskar at last. The cool metal felt alive beneath his fingertips, its surface smooth and oiled. His hand trembled against it in relief.

He dressed efficiently, each layer donned smoothly from long habit. Cloth underlayers, leathers, gloves, boots, each piece of beskar fitted perfectly to where it belonged. As he dressed his mind hummed with teachings of the Creed, sacred words spoken of the harmony between armor and warrior.

At last there was only the helmet. He lifted it reverently, staring into the T-shaped visor, the angled curves. His face stared back at him.

_Foundlings must be protected at all costs._

He nodded to himself, and carefully fitted the helmet back over his face, sighing as it slipped into place. He flexed his hands, the pain in his arm faint and fading, and bundled up the discarded trooper’s armor. He opened the door and stepped out, himself once more.

Mayfeld caught his gaze from across the narrow passage. “Hey,” he said, grinning. “There he is.”

Din moved, and his armor moved with him, balanced, precise, perfect. “Yes.” _I am._

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon on tumblr who requested Din & Boba and The Believer. First time attempting Boba Fett, I'm very curious to see where he'll go next in canon.


End file.
